WHAT SAMI SINGS WITH THE BIRDS

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Title: What Sami Sings with the Birds

Author: Johanna Spyri

Translator: Helen B. Dole

First Posted: October 5, 2003 [EBook #9482]
Last Updated: November 19, 2016

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

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Produced by Suzanne Shell, Mary Meehan, and Distributed Proofreaders

WHAT SAMI SINGS WITH THE

BIRDS

BY

JOHANNA SPYRI

TRANSLATED BY HELEN B. DOLE

1917

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CONTENTS

FIRST OLD MARY ANN
SECOND AT THE GRANDMOTHER’S
THIRD ANOTHER LIFE
FOURTH HARD TIMES
FIFTH THE BIRDS ARE STILL SINGING
SIXTH SAMI SINGS TOO

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

UP IN THE ASH-TREES THE BIRDS PIPED AND SANG MERRILY TOGETHER.
WHERE HAVE YOU COME FROM WITH ALL YOUR HOUSEHOLD GOODS?
SUCH STRAY WAIFS AS YOU ARE NOT WILLING TO DO ANYTHING.

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WHAT SAMI SINGS WITH THE

BIRDS

CHAPTER FIRST

OLD MARY ANN

For three days the Spring sun had been shining out of a clear sky and casting a gleaming, golden coverlet over the blue waters of

Lake Geneva. Storm and rain had ceased. The breeze murmured softly and pleasantly up in the ash-trees, and all around in the green
fields the yellow buttercups and snow-white daisies glistened in the bright sunshine. Under the ash-trees, the clear brook was running

with the cool mountain water and feeding the gaily nodding primroses and pink anemones on the hillside, as they grew and bloomed
down close to the water.

On the low wall by the brook, in the shadow of the ash-trees, an old woman was sitting. She was called “Old Mary Ann”

throughout the whole neighborhood. Her big basket, the weight of which had become a little heavy, she had put down beside her. She
was on her way back from La Tour, the little old town, with the vine-covered church tower and the ruined castle, the high turrets of
which rose far across the blue lake. Old Mary Ann had taken her work there. This consisted in all kinds of mending which did not
need to be done particularly well, for the woman was no longer able to do fine work, and never could do it.

Old Mary Ann had had a very changeable life. The place where she now found herself was not her home. The language of the

country was not her own. From the shady seat on the low wall, she now looked contentedly at the sunny fields, then across the
murmuring brook to the hillside where the big yellow primroses nodded, while the birds piped and sang in the green ash-trees above
her, as if they had the greatest festival to celebrate.

“Every Spring, people think it never was so beautiful before, when they have already seen so many,” she now said half aloud to

herself, and as she gazed at the fields so rich in flowers, many of the past years rose up and passed before her, with all that she had
experienced in them.

As a child she had lived far beyond the mountains. She knew so well how it must look over there now at her father’s house, which

stood in a field among white-blooming pear-trees. Over yonder the large village with its many houses could be seen. It was called
Zweisimmen. Everybody called their house the sergeant’s house, although her father quite peacefully tilled his fields. But that came
from her grandfather. When quite a young fellow, he had gone over the mountains to Lake Geneva and then still farther to Savoy.
Under a Duke of Savoy he had taken part in all sorts of military expeditions and had not returned home until he was an old man. He
always wore an old uniform and allowed himself to be called sergeant. Then he married and Mary Ann’s father was his only child. The
old man lived to be a hundred years old, and every child in all the region round knew the old sergeant.

Mary Ann had three brothers, but as soon as one of them grew up he disappeared, she knew not where. Only this much she

understood, that her mother mourned over them, but her father said quite resignedly every time: “We can’t help it, they will go over the
mountains; they take it from their grandfather.” She had never heard anything more about her brothers.

When Mary Ann grew up and married, her young husband also came into the house among the pear-trees, for her father was old

and could no longer do his work alone. But after a few years Mary Ann buried her young husband; a burning fever had taken him off.
Then came hard times for the widow. She had her child, little Sami, to care for, besides her old, infirm parents to look after, and
moreover there was all the work to be done in the house and in the fields which until now her husband had attended to. She did what
she could, but it was of no use, the land had to be given up to a cousin. The house was mortgaged, and Mary Ann hardly knew how to
keep her old parents from want. Gradually young Sami grew up and was able to help the cousin in the fields. Then the old parents died
about the same time, and Mary Ann hoped now by hard work and her son’s help little by little to pay up her debts and once more take
possession of her fields and house. But as soon as her father and mother were buried, her son Sami, who was now eighteen years old,
came to her and said he could no longer bear to stay at home, he must go over the mountains and so begin a new life. This was a great
shock to the mother, but when she saw that persuasion, remonstrance and entreaty were all in vain her father’s words came to her
mind and she said resignedly, “It can’t be helped; he takes it from his great-grandfather.”

But she would not let the young man go away alone, and he was glad to have his mother go with him. So she wandered with him

over the mountains. In the little village of Chailly, which lies high up on the mountain slope and looks down on the meadows rich in
flowers and the blue Lake Geneva, they found work with the jolly wine-grower Malon. This man, with curly hair already turning grey
and a kindly round face, lived alone with his son in the only house left standing, near a crooked maple-tree.

Mary Ann received a room for herself and was to keep house for Herr Malon, and keep everything in order for him and his son.

Sami was to work for good pay in Malon’s beautiful vineyard. The widow Mary Ann passed several years here in a more peaceful
way than she had ever known before.

When the fourth Summer came to an end, Sami said to her one day:
“Mother, I must really marry young Marietta of St. Legier, for I am so lonely away from her.”
His mother knew Marietta well and besides she liked the pretty, clever girl, for she was not only always happy but there were few

girls so good and industrious. So she rejoiced with her son, although he would have to go away from her to live with Marietta and her
aged father in St. Legier, for she was indispensable to him. Herr Malon’s son also brought a young wife home, and so Mary Ann had
no more duties there, and had to look out for herself. She kept her room for a small rent, and was able to earn enough to support
herself. She now knew many people in the neighborhood, and obtained enough work.

Mary Ann pondered over all these things, and when her thoughts returned from the distant past to the present moment, and she still

heard the birds above her singing and rejoicing untiringly, she said to herself:

“They always sing the same song and we should be able to sing with them. Only trust in the dear Lord! He always helps us, although

we may often think there is no possible way.”

Then Mary Ann left the low wall, took her basket up again on her arm and went through the fragrant meadows of Burier up towards

Chailly. From time to time she cast an anxious look in the direction of St. Legier. She knew that young Marietta was lying sick up there
and that her son Sami would now have hard work and care, for a much smaller Sami had just come into the world. Tomorrow Mary
Ann would go over and see how things were going with her son and if she ought to stay with him and help.

Mary Ann had scarcely stepped into her little room and put on her house dress, to prepare her supper, when she heard some one

coming along with hurried footsteps. The door was quickly thrown open and in stepped her son Sami with a very distressed face.
Under his arm he carried a bundle wrapped up in one of Marietta’s aprons. This he laid on the table, threw himself down and sobbed
aloud, with his head in his arms:

“It is all over, mother, all over; Marietta is dead!”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, what are you saying?” cried his mother in the greatest horror. “Oh, Sami, is it possible?”
Then she lifted Sami gently and continued in a trembling voice:
“Come, sit down beside me and tell me all about it. Is she really dead? Oh, when did it happen? How did it come so quickly?”
Sami willingly dropped down on a chair beside his mother. But then he buried his face in his hands and went on sobbing again.
“Oh, I can’t bear it, I must go away, mother, I can’t bear it here any longer, it is all over!”
“Oh, Sami, where would you go?” said his mother, weeping. “We have already come over the mountains, where would you go from

here?”

“I must go across the water, as far as I possibly can, I can’t stay here any longer. I cannot, mother,” declared Sami. “I must go

across the great water as far as possible!”

“Oh, not that!” cried Mary Ann. “Don’t be so rash! Wait a little, until you can think more calmly; it will seem different to you.”
“No, mother, no, I must go away. I am forced to it; I can’t do any different,” cried Sami, almost wild.
His mother looked at him in terror, but she said nothing more. She seemed to hear her father saying: “It can’t be helped. He takes it

from his grandfather.” And with a sigh she said:

“It will have to be so.”
Then there sounded from the bundle a strange peeping, exactly as if a chicken were smothering inside. “What have you put in the

bundle, Sami?” asked the mother, going towards it, to loosen the firmly tied apron.

“That’s so, I had almost forgotten it, mother,” replied Sami, wiping his eyes, “I have brought the little boy to you, I don’t know what

to do with it.”

“Oh, how could you pack him up so! Yes, yes, you poor little thing,” said the grandmother soothingly, taking the diminutive Sami

out of one wrapping and then a second and a third.

The father Sami had wrapped the little baby first in its clothes, then in a shawl, and then in the apron as tight as possible, so that it

couldn’t slip out on the way, and fall on the ground. When little Sami was freed from the smothering wrappings and could move his
arms and legs he fought with all his limbs in the air and screamed so pitifully that his grandmother thought it seemed exactly as if he
already knew what a great misfortune had come to him.

But father Sami said perhaps he was hungry, for since the evening before no one had paid any attention to the little baby. This

seemed to the sympathetic Mary Ann quite too cruel, and she realised that if she didn’t care for the poor little mite it would die. She
wrapped him up again carefully in his blanket, but not around his head, and carried him upright on her arm, not under it, as one carries
a bundle. Then she ran all around her room to collect milk, a dish and fire together, so that the starving little creature might have some
nourishment. As she sat on her stool, and the little one eagerly sipped the milk, while his tiny little hand tightly clasped his
grandmother’s forefinger like a life-preserver, she said, greatly touched:

“Yes, indeed, you little Sami, you poor little orphan, I will do what I can for you and the dear Lord will not forsake us.”
And to the big Sami she said:
“I will keep him, but don’t take any rash steps! In the first great sorrow many a one does what he later regrets. See, you can’t run

away from sorrow, it runs with you. Stay and bear what the dear Lord sends. He is not angry with you. Hold to him still in time of
sorrow, then the sun will shine tomorrow! It will be the same with you as it has been with so many others.” Sami had listened in silence,
but like one who does not understand what he hears.

“Good night, mother! May God reward you for what you do for the boy,” he said then, after wiping his eyes again. Then he pressed

his mother’s hand, and went out of the door.

CHAPTER SECOND

AT THE GRANDMOTHER’S

Old Mary Ann had now to begin over again, where she had left off twenty-one years before, to bring up a little Sami. But then she

was fresh and strong, she had her husband by her side, and lived at home among friends and acquaintances. Now she was in a strange
land and was a worn-out woman, and felt that her strength would not last much longer. But little Sami did not realise all this. He was
tended and cared for as if his grandmother wanted to make up to him every moment for what he had lost, and she was always saying
to him, pityingly:

“You poor little thing, you have nobody in the world now but an old grandmother.”

Moreover it was so. Father Sami could not be consoled. As soon as his young wife was buried he went away, and must have

landed a long time ago in the far away country.

Little Sami grew finely, and as his grandmother talked with him a great deal, he began very early to imitate her. His words became

more and more distinct, and when the end of his second year came, he talked very plainly and in whole sentences. His grandmother
didn’t know what to do for joy, when she realised that her little Sami spoke not a word of French, but pure Swiss-German, as she had
heard it only in her native land. He spoke exactly like his grandmother, who was indeed the only one he had to talk with.

Now every day her baby gave her a new surprise. First he began to say after her the little prayer she repeated for him morning and

evening; then he said it all alone. She had to weep for joy when the little one began to sing after her the little Summer song she had
learned in her own childhood and had always sung to him, and one day suddenly knew the whole song from beginning to end and sang
one verse after another without hesitation.

In spite of all the grandmother’s trouble and work, the years passed so quickly to her, that one day when she began to reckon she

discovered that Sami must be fully seven years old. Then she thought it was really time that he learned something. But suddenly to send
the boy to a French school when he didn’t understand a word of French seemed dreadful to her, for he would be as helpless as a
chicken in water. She would rather try, as well as she possibly could, to teach him herself to read. She thought it would be very hard
but it went quite easily. In a short time, the youngster knew all his letters, and could even put words together quite well. That something
could be made out of this which he could understand and which he did not know before was very amusing to him, and he sat over his
reading-book with great eagerness. But to go out with his grandmother to deliver her mending and to get new work was a still greater
pleasure to him, for nothing pleased him better than roaming through the green meadows, then stopping at the brook to listen to the
birds singing up in the ash-trees.

The changeable April days had just come to an end and the beaming May sun shone so warm and alluring that all the flowers looked

up to it with wide-open petals. Mary Ann with Sami by the hand, her big basket on her arm, was coming along up from La Tour. The
boy opened both his eyes as wide as he could, for the red and blue flowers in the green grass and the golden sunshine above them
delighted him very much.

“Grandmother,” he said taking a deep breath, “to-day we will sit on the low wall for twelve long hours, won’t we, really?”
“Yes, indeed,” assented his grandmother, “we will stay there long enough to get well rested and enjoy ourselves; but when the sun

goes down and it grows dark, then we will go. Then all the little birds are silent in the trees and the old night-owl begins to hoot.”

This seemed right to Sami, for he didn’t want to hear the old owl hoot. Now they had reached the wall. A cool shadow was lying on

it; below the fresh brook murmured, and up in the ash-trees the birds piped and sang merrily together and one kept singing very
distinctly:

“Sing too! Sing too!”
Sami listened. Suddenly he lifted up his voice and sang as loud and lustily as the birds above, the whole song that his grandmother

had taught him:

Last night Summer breezes blew:—

All the flowers awake anew,
Open wide their eyes to see,
Nodding, bowing in their glee.

All the merry birds we hear

Greet the sunshine bright and clear;
See them flitting thru the sky,
Singing low and singing high!

Flowers in Summer warmth delight:—

What of Winter and its blight?
Snowy fields and forests cold?
Flowers are by their faith consoled.

Songsters, all so blithe and gay,

Know ye what your carols say?
How will your sweet carols fare
When your nests the snow-storms tear?

All the birdlings everywhere

Now their loveliest songs prepare;
All the birdlings gayly sing:—
“Trust the Lord in everything!”

Then Sami listened very attentively, as if he wanted to hear whether the birds really sang so.
“Listen, listen, grandmother!” he said after a while. “Up there in the tree is one that doesn’t sing like the others. At first he keeps

singing ‘Trust! Trust! Trust! Trust!’ and then the rest comes after.”

“Yes, yes, that is the finch, Sami,” she replied. “See, he wants to impress it upon you, so that you will think about what will always

keep you safe and happy. Just listen, now, he is calling again: Trust! trust! trust! trust! trust! Only trust the dear Lord.”

Sami listened again. It was really wonderful, how the finch always sounded above the other birds with his emphatic “Trust! trust!

trust!” “You must never forget what the finch calls,” continued the grandmother. “See, Sami, perhaps I cannot stay with you much
longer, and then you will have no one else, and will have to make your way alone. Then the little bird’s song can oftentimes be a
comfort to you. So don’t forget it, and promise me too that you will say your little prayer every day, so that you will be God-fearing;

then no matter what happens, it will be well with you.”

Sami promised that he would never forget to pray. Then he became thoughtful and asked somewhat timidly:
“Must I always be afraid, grandmother?”
“No, no! Did you think so because I said God-fearing? It doesn’t mean that: I will explain it to you as well as I can. You see to be

God-fearing is when one has the dear Lord before his eyes in everything he does, and fears and hesitates to do what is not pleasing to
Him, everything that is wicked and wrong. Whoever lives so before Him has no reason to fear what may happen to him, for such a
man has the dear Lord’s help everywhere, and if he has to meet hardship oftentimes, he knows that the dear Lord allows it so, in order
that some good may come out of it for him, and then he can sing as happily as the little birds: ‘Only trust the dear Lord!’ Will you
remember that well, Sami?”

“Yes, that I will,” said Sami, decidedly, for this pleased him much better, than if he had to be always afraid.
Now the setting sun cast its last long rays across the meadows, and disappeared. The grandmother left the wall, took Sami by the

hand and then the two wandered in the rosy twilight along the meadow path, then up the green vine-clad hill to the little village of
Chailly up on the mountain.

CHAPTER THIRD

ANOTHER LIFE

One morning, a few days later, Mary Ann was so tired she couldn’t get up. Sami sat beside her waiting for her to be fully awake in

order to go into the kitchen and make the coffee. His grandmother opened her eyes once and fell asleep again. She had never done
anything like this before. Now she was really awake. She tried to raise herself up a little, then took Sami by the hand and said in a low
voice:

“Sami, listen to me, I must tell you something. See, when I am no longer with you, you have no one else here, and are an entire

stranger. But there over the mountains you have relatives, and you must return to them. Malon will tell you how to get there. You must
go to Zweisimmen. There ask for the sergeant, your cousin, who lives in the house with the big pear-trees near it. Tell him your
grandmother was the sergeant’s Mary Ann and your father was Sami. Work hard and willingly, you will have to earn your living. There
in the chest is some money in the little bag; take it, it is yours; don’t spend it foolishly. Sami, think of what you promised me. Don’t
neglect to pray, it will bring you comfort and happiness which you will need. Try to associate with God-fearing people and live with
them, then you will learn only good. Go, now, Sami, and call Herr Malon. I must talk with him.”

Sami went and came back with the man of the house. He stepped up to Mary Ann’s bed, and tried to encourage her, as that was

his way. But he was alarmed at her appearance and wanted to go for the doctor, as he told her. But she held him fast and tried with
great difficulty to express herself in his language, for she had only a scanty knowledge of it. Malon nodded his head understandingly
and then hurried away. When he returned to the room a couple of hours later with the doctor, Sami was still sitting in the same place
by the bed, waiting very quietly for his grandmother to wake up again. The doctor drew near the bed. Then he spoke with Malon a
while, and finally came to Sami. He told him his grandmother would never wake again, that she was dead.

Malon was a good man; he said he himself would go with Sami part of the way until he found some one who could talk with him and

take him further; but he must put all his belongings together in a bundle. Then the two men went away.

After a while the young woman of the house came, for the forsaken boy had deeply aroused her sympathy. She found Sami still

sitting in the same place by the bed. He was looking steadfastly at his grandmother and weeping piteously. The woman spoke to him,
but he did not understand her. Then she took everything out of the cupboard and drawers, packed them into a bundle and showed
Sami that he was to eat the bread and milk on the table. Sami swallowed the milk obediently, but the woman put the bread in his
pocket. Then she led the boy once more to the bed, that he might take his grandmother’s hand in farewell.

Sami obeyed still sobbing, and let himself be led away by the woman. Herr Malon was already waiting beside his little cart in which

lay Sami’s bundle. The boy understood that he was to draw the cart, but he knew not where. He wept softly to himself for it seemed
to him as if he were going out into the wilderness where he would be wholly alone. Malon went on ahead of him.

It was the same way Sami had often gone with his grandmother down to La Tour. When he came to the wall by the brook, he

sobbed aloud. How lovely it had been there with his grandmother! He could not see the way because of his falling tears, but he heard
Herr Malon’s heavy step in front of him, and he followed after. At the little station house above the vine-covered church Malon
stopped. Soon after the train came puffing along. Malon got in and pulled Sami after him, and they started away. Sami crouched in a
corner and did not stir. They travelled thus for an hour. Sami did not understand a word that was spoken around him, although several
times one and another tried to talk with him a little, for the softly weeping boy had indeed awakened their sympathy.

The train stopped again. Malon got out and Sami followed him. They went a short distance together and then Malon stepped to the

left into a large garden and then into the house. Here he talked a while with the man of the house, who from time to time looked
pityingly at Sami. Then Malon took Sami’s hand, shook it and left him behind alone in the big room.

After some time the man of the house came back and a sturdy fellow behind him. The latter began to talk in Sami’s own language.

He wanted to console the boy and said he would soon go on in a carriage. Then Sami asked if he was his cousin, and if this was the
village of Zweisimmen? But the fellow laughed loudly and said he was no cousin, but a servant here in the inn, and the place was called
Aigle. Sami would have to travel an hour longer and would not reach Zweisimmen before twelve o’clock at night. But there was a
coachman here from Interlaken, who had to go back and would take him along.

The man of the house had bread and eggs brought for Sami and when he said he wasn’t hungry, he put everything kindly into the

boy’s pocket. Then he led the boy out. Outside stood a large coach with two horses and high up on the top sat the driver. No one was
inside. Sami was lifted up, the driver placed him next himself and drove away. At any other time this would have pleased Sami very
much, but now he was too sad. He kept thinking of his grandmother, who could no longer talk with him and would never wake again.
After some time the driver began to talk to him. Sami had to tell him where he came from and to whom he was going. He told him
everything, how he had lived with his grandmother, how she had fallen asleep early that day, and did not wake up again; and that he
was going to find a cousin in Zweisimmen and would have to live with him. Sami’s childish description touched the driver so deeply
that he finally said:

“It will be too late when we reach there, you must stay with me to-night.”
Then when he saw Sami’s eyes close with the approaching twilight and only open again when they went over a stone, and the two

of them up on the box were jounced almost dangerously against each other, he grasped the boy firmly, lifted him up and slipped him
backwards into the coach. Here he fell at once fast asleep and when he finally opened his eyes again, the sun was shining brightly in his
face. He was lying in his clothes on a huge, big bed in a room with white walls. In all his life he had never seen such walls. He looked
around in consternation. Then the coachman of the day before came in the door.

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“Have you had your sleep out?” he said laughing. “Come and have some coffee with me. Then I will take you to your cousin. Some

one else must carry your bundle. It is too heavy for you.”

Sami followed him into the coffee-room. Here the good man kept pouring out coffee for the boy, but Sami could neither eat nor

drink.

When the coachman had finished his breakfast, he rose and started with Sami on the way to the sergeant’s house. It was not far. At

the house in the meadow among the pear-trees he laid Sami’s bundle down, shook him by the hand and said:

“Well, good luck to you. I have nothing to do in there and have farther to go.”
Sami thanked him for all his kindness, and gazed after his benefactor, until he disappeared behind the trees. Then he knocked on the

door. A woman came out, looked in amazement first at the boy, then at his big bundle, and said rudely: “Where have you come from
with all your household goods?”

Sami informed her where he had come from and that his grandmother was Mary Ann, and his father, Sami. Meanwhile three boys

had come running up to them, placed themselves directly in front of him, and were looking at him from top to toe with wide-open eyes.
This embarrassed Sami exceedingly.

“Bring your father out,” said the mother to one of her boys. Their father was sitting inside at the table, eating his breakfast.
“What’s the matter now?” he growled.
“There is someone here, who claims to be a relative of yours. He doesn’t know where he is going,” exclaimed his wife.
“He can come in to me, perhaps I can tell him, if I know,” replied the man, without moving.
“Well, go in,” directed the woman, giving Sami an assisting push. The boy went in and replied very timidly, where he had come from

and to whom he had belonged. The peasant scratched his head.

“Make quick work of it,” said the woman impatiently, who had followed with her three boys.
“I think we have enough with the three of them, and there are people who might need such a boy.”
“This is quickly decided,” said the peasant, thoughtfully cutting his piece of bread in two; “send all four boys out.”
After this command had been carried out, he continued slowly: “There is no help for it. It was stipulated at the time the house was

sold, that room must be made in the house if either Mary Ann, Sami or the child should come back. Besides, it is not so bad as it
seems. Where three sleep together there is room for a fourth, and he can do some work for his food. The parish can do something for
his clothes.”

His wife had no desire to have a fourth added to her three boys, for her own made enough noise and trouble for her. She protested,

saying she knew how it was with such stray children and they could expect to have a fine time!

But it was of no use; it was decided that Sami should have a place in the house. The farmer brought in the bundle and carried it up

to the oldest boy’s room, where until now the broad-shouldered Stöffi had slept in a bed alone. He could take Sami in with him, for he
was smaller than the other two; Michael and Uli could stay together as before.

Then the woman opened the bundle. She was not a little surprised, when she found inside not only Sami’s clothes, all in the best of

order, but also two good dresses, aprons and neckerchiefs. She called Sami up to her, and showed him the corner in the chest where
she had put his things. Then she said she would take the woman’s clothes for herself, since he could surely make no use of them. The
clothes which his grandmother had always worn were so dear to Sami, that he looked on with sad eyes, as they were carried away,
but he thought it had to be so.

He had already made the acquaintance of the three boys. They had shown him below in front of the house how one of them could

best throw down the others, and had demonstrated all sorts of useful tricks. But as each tried to outdo the others in showing off his
knowledge, a struggle ensued and the tricks were immediately applied; one threw another over the third, Sami was knocked and
thrown around by all three.

When he now came down from his room a voice from the barn called out: “Come here and help pull.”
Sami ran along. There stood the two younger boys, Michael and Uli, with great hoes on their shoulders, and Stöffi beside a cart

which had to be taken along. They waited for their father, and then all went out to the field. Here Stöffi and Sami had to rake together
the grass, which the father cut, and load it on the cart, and bring home to the cows. Michael and Uli had to hoe the weeds in the next
field near by. Now it appeared that Sami did not know at all how to use the rake, for he had never done such work.

“He shall weed with Uli, and Michael can do this work,” said the farmer.
But when Sami tried to do this, the hoe was too heavy for him, and he could do nothing.
“Then kneel on the ground and pull them up with your hands,” said the farmer.
Sami squatted down and pulled at the weeds with all his might. The ground was hard and the work very tiresome. But Sami did not

forget how his grandmother had impressed it upon him to do all his work well and willingly.

At noon the two weeders took their hoes on their shoulders and Sami had to pull the cart, which was now much heavier than on the

way there. The boy had to use all his strength, for Stöffi showed him plainly that he would not take upon himself the larger part of the
work.

Then when they passed by the field the father indicated to each one the piece he would have to weed that afternoon; for he himself

would be obliged to go to the cattle market. They would find a smaller hoe at home for Sami to take with him in the afternoon, for
pulling up the weeds was too slow work.

After the boys had worked several hours in the afternoon, they sat down in the shade of an old apple-tree to eat their luncheon, and

the piece of black bread with pear juice tasted very good after the hot work.

“Have you ever seen a bear?” asked Stöffi of Sami.
He said he had not.
“Then you would be fearfully frightened if you should suddenly see one,” continued Stöffi; “only those who know them are not afraid

of them. This evening there is to be one in the village, and, as I am almost through with my piece in the field, you can finish it, so I can
go early to see the bear.”

Sami agreed. When all four had begun to hoe again, Stöffi soon exclaimed:
“Well, you won’t have much more to do now, Sami, but keep your promise, or—”
Stöffi doubled up his fist, and Sami understood what that meant.
He had hardly gone when Michael said:
“See, Sami, there isn’t much left of mine, you can do that too; I am going to see the bear.”
Whereupon Michael ran off.
“Me, too,” cried Uli, throwing down his hoe. “You can finish that also, Sami.”
When the twilight came on and the family put the sour milk and the steaming potatoes on the table, Sami was missing.
“I suppose he will keep us waiting,” remarked the farmer’s wife sharply. When all had finished and the milk mugs were empty, the

woman cleared them away and placed the few potatoes left over on the kitchen table and growled:

“He can eat here, if he wants anything.”
It was quite dark, and Sami still had not come. Just as the other three were being sent to bed, he came in, so tired he could hardly

stand. The woman asked him harshly, if he couldn’t come home with the others. The farmer assumed that the piece he had told Sami
to weed had been too much for him to do, and he said consolingly:

“It is right that you wanted to finish your work, but you must work faster.”
Sami understood the signs which Stöffi made behind his father’s back, that he was to keep silent about the bear, and he was too

much afraid of the three boys’ fists to say anything about it.

He preferred to go straight to bed, for he was too tired to eat. But he couldn’t go to sleep. He had received so many new

impressions, he had borne so much anguish, and had to do so much work besides, he could think of nothing else. But now his
grandmother came before his eyes again as she had prayed with him at evening and had been so kind to him, and everything she had
told him. He wanted so much to pray, it seemed to him as if his grandmother was near and told him the dear Lord would always
comfort him if he prayed, and that comfort he was so anxious to have.

He was so troubled, when he wondered if he could do his work the next day, so that the farmer would not be cross, and how his

wife would be, for he was very much afraid of her, and how it would be with the boys, who forced him to make everything appear

contrary to the truth.

Then Sami began to pray and prayed for a long time, for he already began to feel comforted, because he could take refuge with the

dear Lord and ask Him to help him, now that he had no one left in the world to whom he could speak and who could assist him. When
at last his eyes closed from great weariness he dreamed he was sitting with his grandmother on the wall and above them all the birds
were singing so loud and so joyfully that he had to sing with them: “Only trust the dear Lord!”

CHAPTER FOURTH

HARD TIMES

The following morning Sami was awakened by loud tones, but it was no longer the birds singing; it was the farmer’s wife ordering

the boys harshly to get up right away. She had already called them three times, and if this time they didn’t obey, their father would
come. Then they all sprang out of bed and in a few minutes were down-stairs, where their father was already sitting at the table and
would not have waited much longer.

The day did not pass very differently from the one before, and thus passed a long series of days. There was already a change in the

work.

Sami, little by little, learned to do everything very well, for he took pains and followed his grandmother’s advice carefully. He always

had something to do for the other boys still, so that he never finished his work a moment before supper-time. But he was no longer
late. A change had also come about in this. Stöffi had learned that there was one thing Sami could not or would not do which he
himself could do very well: he could not tell a lie.

He had been late again a couple of times, but had never told the reason. Finally, however, the farmer had spoken harshly:
“Now speak out, and tell why you can’t get through your work faster; you are quick enough when anyone is watching you.”
Then Sami had accordingly told all the truth, and the father had threatened to beat the boys if they didn’t do their work themselves.

Afterwards Stöffi had thrashed Sami to punish him, and had warned him that he would do it every time Sami complained of him.

Sami had replied that he had never complained and didn’t want to do so, but when his father questioned him he could only tell him

the truth. Stöffi tried to explain to him that it didn’t matter whether he told the truth or not, but here he found Sami more obstinate than
he had expected, and no matter what fearful threats he hurled at him, he always said the same thing in the end:

“But I shall do it.”
This firmness was the result of Sami’s sure conviction that the dear Lord heard and knew everything and that lying was something

wicked, which did not please Him.

So Stöffi had to find some other way to get off from his work early and make Sami finish what he left. He found that all three could

never dare abandon their work and leave it for Sami, but one of them might do so each evening, and he threatened to punish his
brothers severely if they would not agree to this. Then there would always be three or four evenings in succession when Stöffi wanted
to go away early; then the brothers had to stay and work, and this led to many a quarrel, with heavy blows which regularly fell upon
Sami.

So he never had any happy days. But every evening he could be alone with his thoughts of his grandmother, of all the beautiful

bygone days and all the good words she had spoken to him. Nobody troubled him, or called to him, or pulled him then, as usually
happened all day long.

Thus the Summer and Autumn passed away, and a cold Winter had come. There was no more work to be done in the fields and

meadows, but there were all sorts of things to be done to help the farmer in the barn and his wife in the house and the kitchen. This
Sami had to do.

Meanwhile their own three boys could go to school, which had now begun again, for they had to get some education. Sami could

get that by and by. In the Summer he had acquired a good deal of quickness and now did his work so skilfully that the farmer said a
couple of times:

“I would not have believed it, for in the Summer he was always the last.”
Sami now thought that everything would go easier than in the Summer, but something came which was much harder to bear than the

extra burden of work, which was too much for the others.

Every day the boys fought in the field outside, and Sami, as the smallest, always came off with the most blows. But that was the end

of it, and when the boys came home at night no one thought any more about it. In the evening the three boys were assigned to the little
room with the feeble light of a low oil lamp, to do their arithmetic for school, while Sami had to cut apples and pears for drying. From

the first the three were angry because Sami had no arithmetic to do, and then one would accuse the other of taking the light away from
him, and all three would scream that Sami didn’t need any at all for his work. Then one would pull the lamp one way, and another the
other way, until it was upset and the oil would run over the table into Sami’s apples. Then there would be a really murderous tumult in
the darkness; all hands would grope in the oil and one would always outcry the others. Then the mother would come in very cross and
want to know who was always starting such mischief. Then one would blame the other, and finally the blame would fall on Sami,
because he made the least noise. Usually the farmer too came in then, and his angry wife would always reply that she had indeed said
the boy would be an apple of discord in the house, and a Winter like this they had never experienced. Often Sami had to endure many
hard words and undeserved punishment. On such evenings he remained sleepless for a long time sitting on his bed.

Then he would rack his brains as to how it could happen so, since his grandmother had told him that if he was God-fearing

everything would happen for the best. That he should be so scolded and badly treated was not the best for him. He really wanted to be
God-fearing and not forget that the dear Lord saw and heard everything. But Sami was still very young and could not know, what he
later knew, that it is good for everyone if he learns early in life to bear hardship. Then when the evil days, which none escape, come
again later on, he can cope with them bravely, because he knows them already and his strength has become hardened; and when the
good days come he can enjoy them as no one else can who has never tasted the bad ones.

At this time Sami knew nothing about this and almost never went to sleep without tears; indeed, he often wondered whether the

birds were still calling up in the ash-trees: “Only trust in the dear Lord!” and if it were still true that everything would come out right.
The only comfort for him was that his grandmother had told him so positively, and he held fast to that.

It was a long, hard Winter. The snow lay so deep and immovable on the meadows and trees, that Sami often asked with anxiety in

his heart, if it would ever entirely disappear, so that the meadows would be green again, and the flowers become alive. It was already
April, and the cold white covering of snow still lay all around. Then a warm wind from the South blew all one night into the valley, and
when on the next day a very warm rain fell, the obstinate snow melted into great brooks. Then came the sun and dried up all the
brooks, and everywhere the new young grass sprang up over the meadows.

The four boys came across the big street of the village and turned into the meadow. They were pulling along the cart, on which lay

the cooking utensils which the farmer’s wife had just purchased at the annual fair in the village. The boys had followed their mother’s
command to go slowly and carefully, so that nothing would be broken, for they knew very well that their mother set great store by
these things, and it was worth while to follow her instructions.

Now that they had come safely over the rough street and had turned into the meadow road, two pulling, two pushing, they wanted

to rest a little while. They stopped under the first large pear-tree, stretched themselves out on the ground and looked up into the blue
sky. In the pear-tree above, the birds were singing merrily together, and suddenly one piped up in the midst of the others, always the
same note, exactly as if he had a special call to give.

“There he is,” cried Sami, springing up from the ground with delight. Then he listened again, and again sounded the staccato call,

clear and sharp above the singing of all the other birds.

“Do you hear it? Do you hear it?” cried Sami in his delight. “Now he is calling again: ‘Trust! Trust! Trust! Trust!’ And then they all

sing together: ‘Only trust the dear Lord!’”

“You are just talking nonsense!” exclaimed Stöffi to the happy Sami. “The bird is more knowing than you are. That is the rain bird; I

know him well. He notices the rain-wind and is calling: ‘Shower! Shower! Shower!’ Then we know it is going to rain.”

But Sami would not give up what was so dear to him and kept saying to himself:
“But he is singing: ‘Trust! Trust! Trust! Trust!’”
“Keep quiet!” continued Stöffi sharply to him. “You are nothing but a little tramp, who can’t do anything and doesn’t know anything

and twists everything he hears.”

Then the blood rose to Sami’s cheeks and the tears came into his eyes and, more courageously than usual towards Stöffi, he cried:
“I don’t do that, but you have done it many times!”
Then Stöffi sprang up and seized hold of Sami to throw him down; but in his anger Sami turned quite differently from usual, so that

Stöffi had to call the others to help him.

A great struggle ensued; the blows became more and more violent, first on one side and then on the other. Suddenly the cart was

upset. A fearful cracking and crashing sounded, and a great heap of red, brown and white crockery lay on the ground. Dumb with
fright, the boys stood and looked at the destruction.

Stöffi was the first to recover himself.
“We will say that a wheel came off the cart, and it suddenly fell down.” He immediately picked up a big stone in order to pound out

the nail and take the wheel off from the axle.

“I shall say just how it all happened, that we quarreled, and upset the wagon,” said Sami calmly.
Then Steffi’s wrath rose to its height.
“You traitor, you spy and mischief-maker!” he screamed. “You are nothing but a ragamuffin. We will force you.”
“You cannot,” said Sami, “and you are no good either! If you were God-fearing, you would not want to lie so.”
“Well, well,” they all screamed together, and shaking their fists in the most threatening way. “You needn’t say that. We are just

exactly as God-fearing as you, and even much more so!”

Suddenly a new thought came to Stöffi. He ran off with all his might, and Michael and Uli rushed after him. Sami saw that they were

hurrying to the house; he followed slowly after. The farmer’s wife had come back to the house by a shorter way, and the farmer was
just returning home too from the field, when the three boys came rushing along. The whole family was standing in great excitement at
the door and all were talking loudly together and making threatening gestures, when Sami came along. He was met by the farmer,

shaking his fist, and his wife threw such harsh words at him that he stood quite dumfounded.

“That was the last straw,” she said, “that after all the kindness he had received he should tell them they were not God-fearing

people.”

Then the farmer joined in. Such talk was insolent from Sami, and it had been known for a long time how upright they were in his

house, before such a scamp had come there and tried to show them the way. Then his wife began again and said Sami would have
nothing more to do in her house; for he had brought nothing but trouble since he stepped into it; he could go to his room, and she
would come right along.

Sami was so surprised and confused by all the attacks and charges, that he had stood quite dumb until now. Now he wanted to

explain how the cart had been upset, but the father said they knew everything already, and all he had to do was to go to his room. He
obeyed.

Soon the farmer’s wife came upstairs, packed Sami’s things together and tied them up again into a bundle, which was now much

smaller than when he had brought it there, for some pieces of his old things had been worn out and were not replaced, and his
grandmother’s clothes were no longer there.

While she was packing the woman kept on talking very angrily about Sami’s wickedness and insolence, so that he now for the first

time understood it all. The boys had stated that he had reproached them for not being God-fearing people; they had punished him for
it, and through his resistance he had overturned the cart. Sami now tried to explain to the woman that it had not happened so, but she
said she knew enough, threw his tied-up bundle beside his bed, and went out.

Now for the first time Sami was able to think over what had happened to him and what was going to come. Then he was angry

because he had to bear such injustice and not once have a chance to speak. And now he was driven out, or perhaps he would be sent
to people where it would be even worse for him. Then he was so overcome with anger and fear and anguish, that he began to cry
aloud and called out:

“Yes, yes, Grandmother, you said if I was God-fearing everything would happen to me for the best; and I have been, and now it has

happened this way!”

But with the thought of his grandmother, there rose in his heart all the memories of his life with her, how they had wandered so

peacefully through the meadows, and how beautiful it had been under those trees, how the birds had sung and the brook murmured,
and suddenly Sami was mightily overcome, and he exclaimed:

“Away! away! Over there! over there!”
From that moment on a bright light rose in his heart. It was hope in a new life as beautiful as the first had been. Then Sami said his

evening prayer gladly and fell asleep.

CHAPTER FIFTH

THE BIRDS ARE STILL SINGING

The next morning when Sami sat at the table with the family, no one said a word to him. The farmer’s wife pushed a piece of bread

towards his coffee-cup and made up an unfriendly face. The farmer was no different. The three boys looked sourly down at their
coffee-cups, for they had no good consciences, and all three feared that their lies of the day before might yet be found out, if Sami
should happen to speak.

When they rose from the table, the farmer said shortly:
“Get your bundle! I shall have to lose more time with you, until I have found a place for you, for surely no one will want you.”
Since the night before a change had taken place in Sami. He no longer hung his head, as he had done almost always before from

fear; he lifted it up and said:

“I know already where I must go.”
The farmer and his wife looked at each other in astonishment.
“I want to go over the mountains,” he added.
“Yes, that is best, that he should go back there, where he came from,” said the farme...